


persephone herself would have crushed the pomegranate into wine for you

by razumihin



Category: Arthurian Literature - Fandom, Arthurian Mythology
Genre: M/M, OH my first fic that's written IN canon setting aosijfoaisda, and hurt gawain....god...it's all about..the fall of gawain, gays we out here!, god. i love writing frenzied desperate achingly betrayed, i mean romantic but also like you know. gawain dies. as he does, i normally write things from gawain's pov i realize..first big lancelot introspection babes!, lancelot is so repressed and his self hatred truly is just. out there, no beta we die like gareth and gaheris, this is. ridiculously romantic aosjfdiosajfoas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25438870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/razumihin/pseuds/razumihin
Summary: “Would you catch me if I fall?” Gawain asks, voice suddenly serious.“No.” Lancelot answers truthfully. “Because I know you wouldn’t.”(Because you don’t need my help, rings in the space between them. An omission.)
Relationships: Gawain/Lancelot du Lac (Arthurian)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 30





	persephone herself would have crushed the pomegranate into wine for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Reynier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reynier/gifts).



> for Rey <3

It is Gawain who veers them off of the well-worn path with a tilt of his head and an inquisitive gleam in his eyes as he smirks in Lancelot’s direction, a look which screams whether or not Lancelot trusts him enough to lead him astray.

(Gawain must know by now that Lancelot would follow him to the end and beyond.)

(It’s a shame that Lancelot will never know, not truly, not until it has all gone and passed just what he meant to Gawain.)

“You’re going to delay us more?” Lancelot asks, although he does steer his horse into the long grass.

Gawain’s laughter is short, clipped. “Since when do either of us care about that?”

The ground here is uneven, gnarled roots that threaten to overturn and twist the hooves of Lancelot’s horse — Gringolet, of course, trods onward gracefully, Gawain’s grip is slack on the reins, only nudging Gringolet forward every so often, the gesture more inquisitive than commanding. Their pace is slow, almost tortuous after their long gallop down the road after disposing of a knight that had been too cocky, too foolish, too caught up in the thrill and the glory of besting Camelot’s finest.

(Too naive, too young — Gawain doesn’t like to think of it too much, sees flashes of Gareth and Owain and Morded and Yvain behind his eyelids.)

Gawain holds back the branches of the trees that dip low into their path and threaten to scratch their faces and brush against their armor, playfully sending a few to swing at Lancelot’s chest every now and again. After a few minutes, the underbrush unfolds into a small clearing, prairie-like and dotted with errant flowers, the sky a wondrous blue blanket above, blinding after a day’s trek in the woods where thick, gnarled branches formed a lush canopy above, blocking all views of the heavens from sight. The grass is long and sweet smelling, and a river bisects the field from the rest of the forest, bubbling and churning a soft little symphony.

They dismount and make their way over to the river, splashing their faces and refilling their waterskins. Lancelot raises an eyebrow at Gawain, a silent question.

“I didn’t bring you here _just_ for the water if that’s what you’re thinking,” Gawain says in response, scrunching up his nose as Lancelot’s eyebrows somehow raise impossibly higher, the scar on his cheek rippling. “Who do you take me for?”

“I don’t think anyone could be like you,” Lancelot says, a little too truthful, a little too honest. His mouth shutters closed with an audible _click_ , mortified.

(This is why Lancelot does not like to speak, often chooses _not_ to talk — his words are clumsy, often too much or too little and never right and never spoken at the right time. Words are elusive, like smoke, intangible unlike the hilt of his sword in his hand, the comfortable weight of his shield strapped to his arm, the tight garrote of Guinevere’s phantom favor upon his forearm — words are the slippery poison of court, the sly look that crosses Arthur’s face that is reflected in his carefully chosen speeches that are far more elaborately constructed than they originally appear, the bitter-tinged regret that decorates Guinevere’s murmurs, the confidence that absolutely drips, golden and honeyed, from Gawain’s lips.)

(Words can undo, even more than a well placed slash from a sword can, can slice deeper than any blade against the weak patches of chain mail, can pierce through even the finest crafted cuirass into the heart — Lancelot heeds his mother’s warnings well.)

Gawain to his credit, doesn’t even blink, doesn’t acknowledge Lancelot’s embarrassment, but turns to him fully and smiles. Backdropped by the sun, the slight crinkles in the corners of his eyes, the unguarded slope of his shoulders, jubilant and carefree, Lancelot realizes with a start that Gawain looks less harried, more human. The rays of light catch in his dark curling hair and Lancelot does not know what he is more blinded by — forever Hyacinth caught helplessly in Apollo’s orbit, the molten remains of Icarus burning into the cool, dark sea.

Across the bend in the river, narrow enough that it is crossable with a little sprint and a jump, is a plum tree. From far away, it blends in seamlessly with the gloom of the forest, but the scent of summer and nectar hangs heavy in the air, the plums themselves forbodingly dark against the vibrant leaves. The ground is cushioned with overripe plums, soggy underneath their feet, and Gawain reaches out to grab at the closest one.

Gawain’s knife cleaves the fruit in two, and he wrenches it apart, eagerly. His eyebrows scrunch together but he laughs as he brings it up to the light so that Lancelot can see. The plum is rotten — despite the taut flesh and the deep, rich aubergine of its skin, the interior is nothing but a sickly mess of green and grey, and the scent of rot and decay is pungent, assails Lancelot’s senses and his eyes water as he jerks his head back.

“That’s what we get for reaching for low hanging fruit.” Gawain says, mirth in his voice as he tosses it aside. He quickly strips himself of his gauntlets, handing them off to Lancelot and ignoring the inquisitive noise that he makes in response. Gawain does a little run and a leap towards the tree and pulls himself up and up the branches —

“If you fall, I’m not going to drag your corpse back to Camelot,” Lancelot says even though they both know that it is a lie.

Gawain’s laughter trickles down like sunlight, like the bubbling brook beside them, as encompassing and ephemeral as the butterflies that dot the clearing behind their backs. “Is that what you say to someone who is treating you to lunch?”

“I was the one who found the blackberry bush,” Lancelot says, taking off his gauntlets as well. “This isn’t lunch, this barely qualifies as supper.”

Gawain snorts, scrabbling up another branch. His hands, Lancelot notes, like his own, are still stained red from the blackberries.

“ _Oh_!” Gawain crows.

(And that is all the warning Lancelot gets before a hail of plums come raining down, one hitting him solidly on his head.)

“ _Gawain_!”

“What _are_ you doing?” Gawain yells back at him. “You’re dropping the goods that I’m risking _my_ life to get!” At this, he tosses another one at Lancelot’s face who promptly catches it.

“I never _asked_ you to go up there!”

“Cranky that I’m taller than you now, huh?”

“I hope that you fall.”

“‘ _I hope that you fall_.’” Gawain mimics, his voice pitched high despite the fact that both Lancelot and himself share the same baritone range.

It’s so ridiculous that Lancelot cannot help but giggle and the look that crosses Gawain’s face at the sound of it is frenzied, euphoric, and utterly besotted.

(For once, Lancelot doesn’t shrink back.)

(He can be selfish, Lancelot reasons to himself. Just this once.)

Gawain does his best impression of a jig atop the tree and Lancelot swears as the branches shake violently. Gawain’s laughter is boisterous and blinding and painfully _real_ even as his foot slides as he pretends to swoon and fall like the ladies in court do before catching himself. Lancelot’s chest is tight with a warmth that he will not name, cannot bring himself to acknowledge on his best of days — and from that reservoir, up his throat and past his lips, laughter bubbles up, rusted and awkward but charmingly, frighteningly authentic. 

(Gawain can’t recall the last time he has heard Lancelot’s laugh, strains to remember if he even has a memory of it, a recollection.)

(Gawain likens it to an ancient well, water finally sprouting up, dusty from disuse and age but miraculous in its singularity.)

When Gawain deems they have enough plums, he nimbly begins his descent, stopping to watch curiously as Lancelot turns and begins to wash the fruit in the stream.

“Hey.” Gawain says, slowly. “Hey, Lancelot?”

“Hmm?”

“Would you catch me if I fall?” Gawain asks, voice suddenly serious.

Lancelot leaves the plums by the bank on top of a spare square of cloth and turns. Gawain is still uncomfortably high up in the tree, ornamented by a kaleidoscope of gold, green, and purple. His face is uncomfortably blank, could almost be mistaken as serene if not for how tense his jaw is.

“No.” Lancelot answers truthfully. “Because I know you wouldn’t.”

( _Because you don’t need my help_ , rings in the space between them. An omission.)

Gawain looks at him, shrewd. Lancelot resists the urge to look away — he looks too much like the king he never truly will be, looks a little too much like a lost hero from some old legend, looks a bit too much like _Arthur_. Gawain must see something in him, Gawain _always_ sees something in him, because his face softens a fraction.

(Lancelot doesn’t know, doesn’t understand what Gawain sees in him.)

“With you by my side I wouldn’t.” Gawain declares and Lancelot’s breath catches.

The moment is broken when Gawain sighs. “I meant, about the tree.”

“Oh.” Lancelot says stupidly.

Gawain’s lips twitch and against his will, Lancelot’s shoulders slump, no longer quite as rigid, nor brushing the bottom of his ears, defensive. Gawain doesn’t so much as climb down or slip or fall so much as he jumps — and heart hammering in his ears, desperate and devoted, Lancelot wrenches forward, arms extended —

— they land in a heap, cushioned by the overripe plums.

“My head hurts,” Gawain moans, wincing as he reaches one hand to brush at his temple.

“ _Your_ head hurts? You pelted me with plums.”

“Armor isn’t exactly soft, you know.”

“What _possessed_ you to jump?”

(It’s a dumb question, they both know it. But Lancelot is bad at words — and Lancelot had responded to Gawain’s true inquiry when he had leapt forward, and Lancelot had answered in turn, hands stretched outwards to reach for Gawain — )

Gawain scowls briefly before reaching over to pat Lancelot’s cheek, the gesture patronizing. “You lied.”

Lancelot blinks as Gawain shuffles himself off of Lancelot’s chest. “What?” Maybe Gawain _did_ hit his head hard against Lancelot’s pauldron.

“You lied.” Gawain repeats. “You caught me.”

Lancelot swallows. It is suddenly very difficult to look Gawain in the eye. Lancelot had foolishly hoped that Gawain would drop the matter entirely, but that’s the thing with Gawain, he never does things by halves. Gawain throws himself in, reckless and head over heels, spurned by action and the thrill of the chase — Lancelot can sympathize, he’s not known for thinking twice, rushing headlong into the fray. Words are brittle and sharp and sting in ways that a sword or an axe cannot, and Lancelot holds the act of hands outstretched to one another, close but not quite touching, forever parallel in tantamount levels as the most fervid of passionate declarations.

Gawain sits beside him, quietly cutting up a plum and handing the slices off to Lancelot, a silent apology for pushing too much, too fast.

(The fruit is sweet, much sweeter than it should be and Gawain’s hands are red-stained and shiny from plum juice, beads of nectar trapped in the grooves between his fingers, knuckles glistening. The next time Lancelot takes a slice, he purposefully bites his own cheek.)

(It’s not the most delicious plum that Lancelot has ever eaten, but it’s made all the more sweeter with Gawain by his side.)

They sit and look across the river, across the clearing, across to where the horses are tied (well, at least, Lancelot’s horse. Gringolet would believe it to be a great insult as he knows _very_ well to stay put when he is needed), and the dreamy waves of the grass blowing in the wind, a miniature sea. Butterflies and dragonflies darting up amongst the wildflowers like colorful fish, and Lancelot is suddenly very homesick.

“Lancelot.”

Lancelot turns, blinks in surprise. Gawain’s face is very close to his, closer than he’s ever been before, at least consciously. Lancelot can see the faint speckle of freckles against Gawain’s dark skin, and Lancelot feels his own cheeks heat up traitorously.

Gawain lifts up a hand. “May I?”

“Of course.” Lancelot says.

Gawain grins. “You shouldn’t spoil me so much, you know. You don’t even know what I’m asking for.” But Gawain’s hands come up, tentatively, slowly, giving Lancelot the time necessary to pull back or push away if needed, and his sun-warmed fingers trace the scar that bisects Lancelot’s cheek.

(Gawain is tactile, Gawain has never touched him like this before.)

Lancelot is stunned, can barely breathe, eyes wide and caught between two warring emotions — to fall or to shield his face, his heart, his eyes from what he’s seeing, the impossible truth.

(Lancelot’s not blind — Gawain’s eyes refract and reflect back what boils within Lancelot’s own blood, tenfold.)

(Lancelot is already breaking his vows — but is that not what he does?)

(Lancelot sinks, submerged in his own selfish desire.)

They kiss, chaste. A mere press of the lips, innocent in a way that neither of them have been in a long time. They draw back then dive into each other, Lancelot shudders and Gawain whimpers in response, and the plums lay scattered by their side, forgotten and perfect and crystalline, summer encapsulated within its shell, before bursting apart, flavorless and wrong and perfumed in a bed of lies, a web of regret.

(In the dying embers of the afternoon light, Lancelot’s berry stained hands look like they’re covered in blood when he reaches up to caress Gawain’s cheeks, cup the back of his head.)

* * *

“You’re a fucking coward.” Gawain spits, mud and sweat cakes his hair to his forehead, his eyes are frenzied, and he snarls, shuddering violently as he parries and blocks and darts forward to main, to break, to kill. “You’re a fucking coward, to slink into Uncle’s court, into the Queen’s favor, into my bed, into my heart — ”

Lancelot roars and drives the sword (the hilt so very, very red) into Gawain’s head.

It’s May when Lancelot’s world ends.

* * *

The clearing looks the same, picturesque, frozen in time like a scene in one of the great tapestries that Guinevere had commissioned and hung in the great hall once upon a time. The grass still smells as sweet, the river bubbles and froths, the sunlight warm, and the plum tree remains vibrant and rich and tucked away. 

(Mocking, like the ghost of Gawain which appears in his dreams, finely clad and radiant, apologies dripping like a waterfall from his mouth, no longer bloodied, no longer bruised.)

(Gawain has nothing to apologize for, nothing _to_ forgive. But forgive he had, despair and regret and pain and heartbreak etched and embossed in every line and word in the letter he had penned to Lancelot before his death. Lancelot cannot bear the thought, the image of Gawain’s bloody bandages and the bitter tinctures he must had endured, the brutal blow to his head — the image of Gawain writing him one last time, begging for his aid in Arthur’s campaign against Mordred, the last of Gawain’s brothers, and the wet tear stains that dot the creased letter, the faint smear of blood in the corner, and how his script had faltered and became almost illegible towards the end, the ghost of his name, a whisper of who he once had been, great and mighty and king of Orkney and Lothian.)

The plums are heavy, so much so that they bend and warp the branches, straining the wood to its breaking point, an exaggerated parabola that looks as if even an iota of more pressure was applied, it would break and snap and crumble to the ground, a feast for the most lowest of creatures.

The plums are fragrant, so much so that it makes Lancelot’s head spin, makes him dizzy and he —

Lancelot reaches for one, bites it, and spits it out and laughs and laughs and laughs for it is rotten.

**Author's Note:**

> based on [Rey's beautiful poem](https://gawain-in-green.tumblr.com/post/624024456002732032/the-plum-tree) and [Lou's gorgeous artwork](https://gringolet.tumblr.com/post/624450402960785408/we-could-live-there-together-or-ill-live-alone). finally the trilogy of fruit content is complete aoisjfdoas
> 
> it's about the. the fruit metaphor of it all... (charlie kelly from iasip meme) the fruit represents their relationship, represents lancelot and his self-loathing.......it's very important that the first and last fruit are rotten...
> 
> also yeah :3 the headache gawain gets earlier is supposed to mirror the deathblow lancelot gives him
> 
> i legit went to edit this today and wrote an extra 1000 words bc lancelot is a melodramatic repressed gay bitch and i love him.
> 
> i'm pendragon @ tumblr, hmu!


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